


clear and helpful

by fangirl_squee



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Gen, fero tries to avoid emotional consequences and making meaningful onnections and ends up doing both, how to make (begrudgingly) make friends and (sort of) influence people, references to mother glory's death, very very background lem/emmanuel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 11:18:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10875666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirl_squee/pseuds/fangirl_squee
Summary: Fero stays to help the gnolls, and makes enemies and more than a few friends doing it. After all, no one achieves anything alone.





	clear and helpful

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to maddie for everything they do, but especially for betaing this fic and help with bits and pieces of it

__

Fero stays, because he promised Mother Glory he would. That’s the simplest explanation.

 

He’s gone back on more than a few promises in his life, but this one is different. It’s the memory of Mother Glory, hunched in the too-small cage, refusing to let him break her out -- she’d looked at him like she believed he’d follow through. Not a lot of people have looked at Fero like that in his life, and certainly very few have looked at him like that in recent memory.

 

Now that she’s gone, there isn’t anyone left to look at him like that any more, but he tries not to think about that part. Thinking about it makes his throat burn, makes him want to turn into a bird and fly to a cave far away in the mountains, and he can’t very well fulfill his promise to her like that.

 

So. 

 

He stays.

 

It’s… bad for a while. Worse than he was expecting, in different ways than he was expecting. 

 

Not so much for himself. After all, he can heal himself, he doesn’t need to eat, he can turn into a bird and fly away from danger when things get too rough. But the gnolls can’t. Fero draws attention away from the gnolls when they need him to or physically puts himself in conflict, sometimes wriggling in-between the bodies of gnolls and halflings in order to do so. He heals cuts and bruises on both sides and tries to convince people to  _ talk _ to each other.

 

The Nacre refugees can’t help, either. They weren’t initially a concern of Fero’s, but after a few months they started nervously approaching him in the street or knocking on the door of the tiny, shitty office space he managed to rent out in a shady part of town. They want Rosemerrow’s protection, and for some reason they think he’s the solution to their problems (instead of the cause of it).

 

He eventually traces this idea back to one Emmanuel de Sal, who apparently told people to ask for “Lem King’s friend”. Emmanuel is under some kind of misguided belief that the goodness of Lem has spilled over into Fero, and no matter how hard Fero argues his case, he can’t seem to convince Emmanuel or the other Narce refugees that they’d be better off trying to get help from elsewhere. 

 

“From where?” Emmanuel asks and, well, he’s got Fero there. 

 

It’s not as though interim mayor Tuell has gone out of his way to help them since he took over from Lenny Lanova. Fero still doesn’t see why it has to be  _ his _ job to help, though. That wasn’t part of his promise to Mother Glory.

 

“Lem said I should ask you,” says Emmanuel, after Fero has exhausted himself arguing.

 

Well. Of course Lem did. Of  _ course  _ Lem told his  _ boyfriend _ that Fero would help, a promise by proxy. Lem isn’t perfect (Fero couldn’t be friends with him if he was), but he’s always earnestly trying his best, and Fero isn’t sure the same could be said of him. He thought Lem knew that about him, at least. 

 

Fero thought that was part of the reason Lem had left.

 

Still, a promise is a promise, even if he’s not the one who made it, so he does what he can. Tries to untangle the labyrinthine knot that is the Rosemerrow legal system to get whatever paperwork and vouching the Narce refugees need to keep Ordena from burning down their small clusters of housing (and finding decent forgers when he can’t).

 

Fero doesn’t know what else to do, really. The changes that need to be made seem so simple to him, but Rosemerrow’s always been a city that would rather look to the past than prepare for the present, or Gods forbid think about the future.

 

When Fero thinks on the past he can see different, better pathways than the ones he’s chosen. Fero is sure that if he was as kind as Emmanuel is advertising, as good as Lem naturally is, then he’d be on one of those paths already. If he was good like that, helping would be natural, be easy. It is neither. 

 

It is, instead, a long, tiring grind.

 

It’s also a lot of responsibility, which honestly suits Fero even  _ less  _ than he’d thought it would. To be of any help to the gnolls means advancing in Rosemerrow, and advancing in Rosemerrow is all about saying the right things, knowing the right people, and worming your way into the right place at the right time. Fero is good at none of those things - his mouth is always at least two steps ahead of his brain, and he’s never been good at telling the  _ right _ people from the  _ wrong _ ones. Or caring.

 

Fero is sure most halflings would tell him that it’s how he ended up in this mess in the first place. They seem pretty sure gnolls are the wrong sort of people, but Fero is yet to hear a satisfying answer as to why.

 

Of course, most halflings he asks don’t really want to engage him in debate about it at all. They just want to yell, using him as a focus point to get out their anger at a changing world. Others would rather use their fists to get across to Fero how wrong his ideas are.

 

Yeah. It turns out to be a very good thing that he can heal himself. That, and he starts to get very good at leaving meetings  _ fast _ .

 

Sometimes he thinks about leaving the city, just turning into a bird and flying after Lem and Ephrim or even just going back to his cave in the mountains, leaving Rosemerrow behind to sort itself out. There are a few times he very nearly does, transforming and flying above the city - and then he’ll see some halflings throwing rocks at some gnoll kids, or a Nacre refugee crouching in an alleyway as a group of Ordenans pass by and well. What else is he  _ supposed _ to do? If he’s trying to get to the right path, the Path of Least Regrets, then sticking it out seems like the one to be on.

 

Most nights he flies above the city before he goes to sleep, glad to be far from other people, other voices, for a moment. It’s harder to be alone than it used to be -- now when it’s too quiet the image of Mother Glory’s last moments play out behind his eyelids. On those nights he doesn’t sleep at all, flying in the cold night air until he can’t keep his eyelids open any longer, sleeping wherever he lands.

 

The days after nights like that are harder. Everything is harder when he’s tired.

  
  


He doesn’t write to Lem. Fero’s penmanship isn't great, and he’s not sure what he’d say anyway; whether he’d want Lem to convince him to stay or to go. He’s not sure if he’d take whatever advice Lem had to give at all. Taking advice has never really been Fero’s strong suit.

  
  


So. Instead he forces himself to sit through council meetings and attempts to charm (or bribe, or blackmail) some votes their way. It’s really more of a holding pattern than anything - things don’t get worse but they don’t get any better either. Every victory, even the smallest ones, means another brick through his window, more suspicious Ordenan eyes on him in the streets, and another hate-filled letter shoved under his door.

 

Emmanuel tells him not to read them, but Fero’s always been too curious for his own good. None of the threats are particularly surprising, and Fero figures it’s better to be prepared in case they get specific.

 

There aren’t many halflings on his side at the outset, which he was mostly prepared to deal with. It’s a good thing he doesn’t need to eat, since most places say they’re out of stock when he asks for anything. It’s a good thing he can turn into a small creature at will, curling up in the limited warmth of the ratty chair in his office to sleep, since every time he tries to buy a room somewhere they tell him there’s no vacancies. It’s a good thing he doesn’t need his family, because for their own sakes they stopped speaking to him after his third council meeting attendance speaking in favour of the gnolls.

 

It stings, more than he’d thought it would, but he doesn’t begrudge them that much. They have to get by in this town, too.

 

So he starts by organising trade for the gnolls in Rosemerrow. It’s hard - most of the halflings who  _ will _ trade with them make Fero’s stomach churn with every snide remark. It only really starts to work when Fero gets the refugees involved - the ones from Nacre and Velas, any prejudice they have outweighed by their need for what supplies the gnolls can provide. 

 

One of the Velas refugees, a tall woman with a pretty scarf covering her hair, offers to get gnolls supplies into halfling-owned stores, which sounds like a more frustrating task than arguing with the Rosemerrow councilmembers. Fero’s throat feels raw just thinking about how long and loud he’ll have to yell to make it happen.

 

“I’ll handle it, if you like,” says the woman. “I think this could really help us, and I’m not used to having so much free time on my hands, usually Ben-” she breaks off, pressing her lips together and looking down to where her hands are folded neatly on the table in front of her. “Well. I’d prefer to be doing something.”

 

“Yeah,” says Fero. “I know what you mean.”

 

On impulse (and really, isn’t that how he does everything?) he reaches out and covers her hand with his own small one, squeezing it clumsily. She looks up at him, blinks, and then offers a small, wavering smile. Fero imagines his own is much the same. It feels hard to summon the energy for warmth, these days.

 

“I’ll talk to the gnolls,” says Fero.

  
  


Fero goes to Lenny Lanova’s execution. It’s not as grisly as Mother Glory’s, there’s no harpoon cannon and angry crowd. If Lenny notices him there, he doesn’t say anything. The whole affair is strangely quiet and reserved.

 

Afterwards, Fero goes back to his small office and stares at the stack of hate mail he’s piled in the corner until his candle burns itself out.

 

That night he has the vision-dream of Mother Glory again, her loud laugh and her solid arms throwing him into their air before they vanish. When he wakes up, his face is wet.

 

Fero sighs, and wipes his face, and pulls himself out of the tangled pile of blankets. It’s cold in his office as he shuffles around, pulling papers together - his window is smashed so often he’s stopped bothering to replace the glass. It seems like a waste of money, after a while.

 

It’s a usual sort of day: frustrating bureaucracy, feeling as though he’s clawing his way through the political muck just in order to not lose the ground they have, yelling until his throat is raw at people who he  _ knows _ are going to continue to disagree with him or just flat-out aren’t listening - when an elderly halfling approaches Fero after a council meeting. 

 

Fero is not in the best mood, having spent the better part of the day across a council chamber in order to push a meaningless but potentially anti-gnoll vote on camping grounds back by a few days (please, gods, let him be able to convince the people he needs for this, he only needs five votes, please, he’s so  _ tired _ and he needs a win,  _ please _ ). He manages what he  _ hopes _ is a smile but probably looks more like a grimace, bracing for a fight.

 

Instead of yelling at him about disloyalty to Rosemerrow culture, the elderly halfling extends a hand. It takes Fero a moment to remember what he’s supposed to do, before he shakes it.

 

“I’m too old for the politics game now, but I remember when I had your fire” says the elderly halfling. “Terrus Tranble - my name might not be of much importance, but you can have it, if you need it.”

 

Fero thanks him, managing a few hopefully polite words - honestly, he doesn’t remember much after the man offers Fero his name, and he’s not sure how he manages to get through the rest of the conversation with such a lump in his throat. His voice sounds odd to his own ears, cracking from use and the tightness in his throat.  He waits until the elderly halfling leaves before he races out, scrambling through the streets to his tiny office and slamming the door shut behind him. 

 

Having other halflings yell at him, throwing things, spitting in his food - that’s a lot, but he can handle that. He’s used to that; he’s prepared for that. 

 

Having a halfling tell him they’re on his side - well, he doesn’t have a prepared response for that. He was starting to think it would never happen, actually. 

 

Something heavy wells up inside of Fero’s chest, weighing him down. Fero sinks to the floor, arms wrapped around his legs. His body shakes as he sobs, and he can feel splinters from the door working their way through the fabric of his shirt, prickling him.

 

It’s the first time he’s cried in a long, long time. Since the night Mother Glory died, probably.

 

Fero wonders what she’d think about him getting an additional name. He thinks it might have made her laugh, the odd formality of halfling culture at odds with them both.

 

It feels easier than usual to pick himself up off the floor.

 

Fero goes to see Terrus the next day, mostly to make sure he hasn’t imagined the whole thing. Terrus hadn’t been lying when he said his name wasn’t of much importance, his apartment is almost in as bad a shape as Fero’s office. Still, he invites Fero inside, offers Fero a cup of tea. He knew Mother Glory too, not deeply, but from seeing each other in the forest, many years ago.

 

“I hunted quite a bit,” Terrus says, “in my younger days. She helped me through more than a few lean winters. I always thought she seemed more reasonable than people made her out to be.”

 

Fero nods, taking a sip of tea to try to lessen the aching in his throat.

 

They talk a little, mostly pleasantries (which Fero is still not great at), and as Fero makes a move to leave Terrus hands him a letter - a formal letter, giving over use of his name to Fero.

 

Fero considers the weight of the thick parchment as he turns it over in his hands. “Are you sure? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I  _ really _ appreciate it, but I- I’m not exactly making a ton of headway, right now. You might not exactly be picking the winning side.”

 

Terrus pushes the parchment more towards Fero. “What matters to me is that you’re trying. Take my name. Use it in whatever way you wish.”

 

Having a second name is… weird. The smug look on interim mayor Tuell’s face falters for a moment when Fero interrupts to correct his introduction during the next meeting. It’s not enough of a name yet to rattle Tuell but Fero replays that fraction of a second over in his mind later and grins to himself.

 

Having a second name, it turns out, is useful for scraping together others. A woman around Fero’s mother’s age stops him in the street and, after making sure he was “ _ that _ Fero Feritas Tranble” pushes a crumpled letter into his hand as well. For a moment, Fero wonders if people have  _ really _ started to ramp up their hate mail and are now delivering it to him in person instead of pushing it under his door, but when he unfolds the crumpled paper it’s… a name.  _ Her  _ name, Fife Birch, signed over to Fero.

 

(He finds out, much later, that she had a sister who lived in one of the villages Ordena had passed through on their way from Velas.  _ Had _ . The past tense of it is heavy, when people speak of it.)

 

Simmon Andres, a painfully young and scrappy looking halfling, comes to Fero’s office with Emmanuel of all people. Simmon rambles for a while, something about his family, offering to help Fero out with things. Fero raises his eyebrows at Emmanuel, who ignores him, puttering around Fero’s office, tidying up.

 

“Sure, sure,” says Fero, kicking his blankets further under his desk so Emmanuel won’t see them. “Always good to have someone around to help.”

 

Before Simmon leaves he gingerly offers a letter to Fero, his hand shaking a little as he holds it out.

 

And then he’s Fero Feritas Tranble Birch Andres. He keeps the letters of names with him always, half as proof and half as a reminder.

 

Simmon actually does come back the next day, with some bread from Emmanuel. It’s strange to have company again. He’s not used to talking to someone who’s not liable to yell at him, and he’s not sure he trusts himself with Simmon’s wide-eyed gaze. Simmon gives the things Fero says far too much weight, but he does help, retrieving obscure documents and helping to push a few more votes their way. 

 

“People can’t say ‘no’ to those big eyes of yours,” says Fero.

 

Simmon deflates a little. “Do you really think it’s just my eyes?”

 

“Nah. Well, yeah, but it’s more like your whole deal. You’ve got a real,” Fero waves a hand, “truthful way about you. People like that.”

 

He reminds Fero a little of Lem, actually; when they’d first met and Lem gave more thought to the things Fero told him. Fero messes with him, just a little. Not nearly as much as he did with Lem, because Fero’s learned now that there’s only so far you can push someone like that before they’ll start regarding everything you say as bullshit. Just enough to toughen Simmon skin a little bit against the rest of Rosemerrow. 

 

Emmanuel drops by later in the week with a few scholarly types (they remind Fero a little of Lem too, and he pushes the thought away before the ache can settle properly in his chest). They’ve brought texts with them, thick books they carried with them from Nacre or procured on the road, offering him ideas for lobby drafts and excerpts from legal texts for the rest of the afternoon.

 

Fero complains, loudly, but he smiles more that day than he has since he decided to stay. Simmon seems at ease with the Nacre refugees, which Emmanuel tells him, voice low so as not to catch the other’s attention, is because he travelled with them on the way to Rosemerrow (another village, hollowed out by Ordena’s righteous fire).

 

Rosana stops by again to talk about expanding the distribution of gnoll goods (and upping the cut the Velasian refugees get from it). Even though his office has more people crammed into it than ever, Fero still doesn't have time to deal with it, so he volunteers Simmon as a go-between (after he and Rosana work out a deal on the price - Simmon is good but he's still a little green).

 

Simmon flushes, ducking his head shyly when Fero suggests it. “You really think I can do something as big as that?”

 

Fero doesn't think it's that big, really, since Rosana will be doing most of the work.

 

“Sure,” says Fero, “can't think of anyone better suited for it.” Then, because Simmon seems to need the extra encouragement, he adds, “You'll do great.”

 

Rosana seems grateful for the extra pair of hands, although something about Simmon’s bright smile makes her own expression waver for a moment. 

 

“As long as you can spare him?” 

 

“Well,” says Fero, drawing out the word.

 

“I’m not moving on the price,” says Rosana, “You already agreed to it.”

 

Fero holds up both hands, grinning. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

 

“Not in this town, it seems,” says Rosana, dryly.

 

Fero laughs.

 

“You’re going to need someone who knows the city,” says Fero. “Simmon might not be from here, but he knows it pretty well.”

 

He ruffles Simmon’s hair, mostly because he knows it will make Simmon make a face, which he does. Rosana presses her lips together to suppress a smile. It looks a bit more solid every time he can coax one out of her. One day, he thinks, he  _ might _ even be able to get her to laugh.

 

“After all, it’s always a good idea to bring two things when you’re trying to make a deal in Rosemerrow,” says Fero.

 

Simmon nods, smoothing down his hair.

 

“Two things,” says Rosana, thoughtfully, “A halfling and…?”

 

“A halfling and an extra name,” chirps Simmon, “I’ve already given Fero mine, so it’s like I’ll be helping even when I’m not here, right?”

 

Fero smiles at Simmon. “That’s right.”

 

“How many does that make it for you now?” says Rosana.

 

“Four,” says Fero, “Not really enough to do much of anything in this town, but they’re good to have on hand.”

 

Rosana hums, gathering her skirts as she stands so that they fall neatly around her, uncreased.

 

“Our Lord Samothes says that something can be created even with the smallest amounts,” says Rosana. “Perhaps they will be more useful than you think.”

 

Fero doesn’t usually put much stock in god talk, but something in Rosana’s tone make her words itch under his skin after she leaves. She’s wrong, of course, no matter what Samothes has to say on the subject -- four names just plain  _ isn’t _ enough names to get things done. He barely has enough names to open a market stall, let alone help the gnolls with anything.

 

So Fero tries something new: he goes out, and tries to convince people to give their names to him.

 

The crazy thing is, some of them  _ actually _ do.

 

Hay Morrowind, former architect of the Beach Development Project and someone who would like to use gnoll housing designs in their work, gives their name mainly to spite the council, who keep marking their designs as ‘aesthetically unsound’.

 

Elinna Cabet, mother of two rambunctious boys who were pulled out of the river by some gnolls a few summers past, gives her name (and tells him to pass on her continued thanks to the two gnolls, to tell them that she’s been praying for them at church).

 

Trinna Egret, who was at the New-Old Museum the night of the fire and was pulled from danger by one of the gnolls himself, gives his name, blushing faintly at the mention of the gnoll’s name. 

 

Likra Fiddleback, who has traded often with the gnolls, and “appreciates the way they do business,” gives her name, along with the caveat that one of the first things he’s got to do once he gets any traction is fixing the trade regulations.

 

Bert Sorus, who has more than a few Nacre refugees working for him making ornate trinkets for tourists, and who would be  _ more _ than happy to be able to hire them more openly, gives his name.

 

Lulu Trax, former actress with a background role in ‘Rosemerrow, My Rosemerrow’, who  _ might _ have just given her name because Fero is just that charming. (There’s another story, involving a certain councilman and his unwillingness to leave his wife, and a very late night of Fero commiserating with Lulu about broken hearts and missed chances, but Fero tells people it was his charm. He’s pretty good at keeping secrets when he has to.)

 

So: Fero Feritas Tranble Birch Andres Morrowind Cabet Egret Fiddleback Sorus Trax.

 

The night when he arrives back at his office - poorer in money from paying Lulu’s bar tab but richer by one name - he has another dream-vision of Mother Glory. For the first time waking up after it is slow instead of the sudden stomach-dropping rush of being dropped. The moonlight is shining in through the window, making patterns through the broken glass of his window. The silence feels like the gem cave’s silence, echoing and peaceful rather than hollow.

 

He still feels tired, and cold, but for just a moment it doesn’t feel so heavy.

 

Fero  _ pushes _ more in council meetings, the new names adding extra weight behind him. He can tell the gnolls are getting as frustrated as he is, it’s hard to see it progress when the gnolls are still in same position they were a year ago, and if he has to yell himself hoarse to get  _ something _ to happen, he will.

 

The problem is, he’s not really sure what that something should be. There’s only so much he can do as one halfling, no matter how many names he has or how angry he gets. There’s lots that needs to change - like, for example, all of it - and it’s hard to know which thread to start pulling at.

 

He slams the door open of the council chamber on his way out, half annoyed (stupid Tuell with his stupid smug face, no way he cared about dwelling-depth regulations that much) and half victorious (got them to widen tunnels by another two feet, gnolls can fit in there now, any new housing built would be able to accommodate gnolls now). There’s a halfling waiting for them outside, one foot propped up on the wall as they lean against it. They look up at Fero as he storms towards them.

 

“You’ve been causing quite a stir, you know,” says the halfling.

 

“Yeah, well,” says Fero, trying to push past them.

 

“Ever thought about running for mayor?”

 

Fero stops and turns, considering them. They’re all pressed shirt and clean shoes, so Fero is pretty sure he could take them in a fight, if he has to.

 

“I think  _ interim mayor Tuell _ ,” says Fero, layering as much acid into his tone as he can muster, “probably has it in the bag. Unfortunately.”

 

The halfling tilts their head to one side. “Well, you’re getting a lot of… momentum right now. You’d be surprised how much that helps.”

 

“Helps  _ me _ ,” says Fero, “become a  _ mayor _ .”

 

The halfling nods, smiling at him. Fero decides that he hates that expression.

 

“No,” says Fero.

 

They blink at him, surprised. “You don’t think it would help the gnolls to have a mayor on their side?”

 

“Yeah, but-” Fero breaks off, throwing his hands in the air, “No. I don’t know who you are-”

 

“Kera,” they say, smiling again.

 

“-and I don’t care,” continues Fero, “this idea is dumb, and if you knew me, like,  _ at all _ you’d agree.”

 

Fero walks away, deeply annoyed. He’s more annoyed when he gets back to his office to find a card pushed under his door.

 

_ Kera. Political Consultant Specialist _ .

 

They’ve written their address on the back in plain, neat handwriting.

 

Fero put the card in the bin. Then he fishes it out again. Then he crumples it into a ball. Then he smoothes it out. He glares at the card in his hands, and the neatly printed ink stares back at him.

 

He doesn’t want to be  _ mayor _ . He wants to help the gnolls and then  _ leave _ .

 

Being mayor. What a terrible idea. What a ridiculous, no good, absolutely  _ terrible _ idea. It’s so bad he can’t stop thinking about it.

 

Mother Glory, he thinks, would have been a good mayor: a good leader, strong and sure and fierce. He tries to be those too, but things never seem to work out right. Every time he’s felt strong and sure it has proceeded everything going very wrong.

 

He tells Chatterchin, because really, it’s  _ such _ a terrible idea, and Fero thinks Chatterchin could probably use a laugh. Instead, he scuffs his feet in the dirt.

 

“You’re not going to forget about us, are you?”

 

“What?” says Fero, “No! Of course not!”

 

“Oh good,” Chatterchin says, looking relieved. “We’ve already got enough halfling mayors who don’t care, we don’t need another one.”

 

It’s not until he’s halfway back to his office that he realises Chatterchin thinks he’s already running. The thought startles him so much he transforms back into a halfling and falls out of the sky, catching himself on someone’s balcony railing before he reaches the ground.

 

He tells Emmanuel about it, because Emmanuel is steady and sure about things, and he will be able to think of a way to talk the gnolls back from the terrible, bad, no good idea.

 

Instead, Emmanuel’s face goes  _ thoughtful _ .

 

“Oh not you  _ too _ ,” says Fero. “You’re supposed to be the sensible one.”

 

“I’ve never made any claim to that,” says Emmanuel, rolling out pastry onto the floured bench.

 

“Come on, it’s a  _ terrible _ idea,” says Fero, “It’s… that’s… I’m not doing it.”

 

Emmanuel looks up at him calmly. “Then what  _ are _ you doing?”

 

Fero huffs and storms out. He does a lap around the block and then storms right back in again. Emmanuel glances up as he enters, pausing for a moment from where he’s cutting the pastry into small crescent shapes.

 

“I don’t even know how I  _ would _ do it,” says Fero.

 

“So find someone who does,” says Emmanuel.

 

Fero thinks of the crumpled up business card in his pocket.

 

“ _ Ugh _ ,” says Fero.

 

Emmanuel hums noncommittally, and hands Fero a still-cooling pastry, smiling as Fero takes it.

 

“I want you to remember how I said this was a dumb stupid, terrible idea,” says Fero, with his mouth full, “so that when this totally explodes in my face I can say I told you so.”

 

Emmanuel smiles, returning to his work. “Okay.”

  
  


Kera’s small townhouse is in a nice part of town, it’s door freshly painted and windows shine in the moonlight. Above the door there’s a small section of stained glass, abstract shapes surrounded by an ornate, curling framework. Fero glares up at it.

 

Fero bounces on the balls of his feet after he knocks. He doesn’t have to wait long.

 

“Ah,” says Kera, “Fero Feritas Tranble Birch Andres Morrowind Cabet Egret Fiddleback Sorus Trax. I knew it was only a matter of time.”

 

“Let’s get one things straight before we even start this thing which, for the record, is a terrible idea and won’t even work,” says Fero. “The gnolls are the priority.”

 

Kera’s face is carefully neutral, reminding Fero of the panel of council members. This is definitely a terrible idea. 

 

“That’s not exactly a…” they pause, “popular platform.”

 

“Well,” says Fero, “it’s the only one I’ve got.”

 

Kera takes a breath, and then lets it out slowly. “Then we’d better find you other ones to go along with it. Luckily for you, I already have some ideas.”

 

They step back to let him in. Fero would say it was the start of a beautiful friendship. Except, of course, that he and Kera can’t stand each other.

 

Fero doesn’t like Kera, and for all their wide grins and smooth manners, he’s pretty sure they don't like him much either. He’d not sure  _ why _ they’re working so hard to back him as mayor, since they fight Fero on almost everything he does. He and Kera don’t agree on anything, from the gnolls and the Nacre and Velas refugees, to whether or not Fero needs new clothes.

 

The only thing they  _ do _ agree on is that Tuell is unbearable, and anything that can be done to make him look even a  _ fraction _ less smug is a thing worth doing. So Kera weedles votes away from Tuell and Fero agrees to sometimes wear a shirt with itchy embroidery.

 

“It brings out your eyes,” says Kera.

 

“I like my eyes where they are, thanks,” says Fero.

 

Kera drags him to events all over Rosemerrow, - long, excruciating nights where he has to dig his nails into his palm to remind him not to snap at the person he's talking to. Kera gets good at moving him smoothly for one person to the next, before things get too bad (even though they still roll their eyes at him as they do it, tilting their head so only he can see it).

 

Most nights are a write-off, but tonight is particularly bad. Even Kera looks like they're waiting for the dinner to be over. Fero can see one of their hands clench under the table as a burst of loud, smug laughter comes from the other end of the table. They're carefully looking away from that end of the table, nodding along as Councilwoman Calsius talks about how her grandchildren are doing in school (or whatever it is she's talking about, Fero hasn’t really been concentrating), but Kera’s body is tensed, reactions tuned to the other end of the table. 

 

There's a break in conversation, and Fero takes to opportunity to lean over. “Hey. We're not staying for the thing after, right?”

 

Kera shoots him a look, frowning. “Why?”

 

Fero shrugs.

 

There's more laughter from the other end of the table and Kera makes a small noise of irritation at the back of their throat. 

 

“Fine.”

 

Fero wriggles gleefully in his chair. The food, he thinks, tastes better now that he knows it won’t be followed by three hours of talking to people he hates. 

 

Kera sighs, and turns their attention back to the councilwoman.

 

Fero moves to rush off as soon as they make it outside, but Kera grabs the back of his collar, pulling him back.

 

“Oh no,” says Kera, “if you're not going to take the opportunity to network, then we're going back to the office. I want to go over your notes for the council meeting tomorrow.”

 

Fero groans. 

 

“Oh like you have anywhere else to be,” says Kera, as they start walking towards Fero’s office.

 

“Maybe I had plans!” says Fero, “You don’t know!”

 

Kera ignores him, walking a little faster. Fero speeds up to keep pace with them. They walk in silence, moving through the polished streets to the more ramshackle neighbourhood where Fero’s office is. Kera slows their pace a little, skirting around broken cobblestones.

 

It’s strange to have company on the walk back. Actually, it’s strange to walk back at all, since normally Fero turns into a small bird for the journey back from whatever event Kera’s dragged him to (for fun, and a little for safety - he’s harder to recognise as a sparrow and even harder to catch). At street level, the houses and shops look more worn than they do from above. He and Kera probably look a little out place in their nice party clothes.

 

Fero pushes the door open, rummaging around in desk for a moment to find some flint. Kera pauses for a moment in the doorway before they enter, picking their way over piles of paper and gnoll goods.

 

“They’re using you for storage again?” asks Kera, gesturing to the pile of gnoll crafts.

 

“Rosana’s coming by to pick it up tomorrow, don’t fuss.”

 

“I’m not  _ fussing _ ,” says Kera. “It’s just not a very professional look.”

 

“To who?” says Fero. “It’s not like I have anyone stopping by.”

 

Kera’s mouth is a thin line of disapproval, but Fero’s pretty used to that expression from them, so he ignores it, moving to light the handful of lamps around the room.

 

Things are easier, when they start looking over the agenda for the next council meeting. Not less argumentative, but they’re more at ease when bickering and poking holes in one another’s arguments.

 

“What about Calsius?” says Fero, tapping his pen on the page, “You were talking to her a lot tonight, you get her on board?”

 

“I… I’m not sure,” says Kera.

 

Fero stops tapping his pen, looking up at her sharply. Kera is usually all certainty in their answers. Their shoulders have tensed up again, the way they’d been during the dinner.

 

Kera sighs, rubbing their forehead. “I suppose I was a little distracted.”

 

“Yeah,” says Fero. “I guessed that when you let me get out of talking to a bunch of bores.”

 

“They might be boring but you still  _ need _ them,” says Kera. They pause. “Well, most of them.”

 

“I didn’t think you could  _ get _ distracted,” says Fero, looping back to their original point.

 

“I just... wasn't expecting him to be there,” says Kera.

 

“Who?”

 

“My father,” says Kera.

 

“Your dad was there?” says Fero. “I’m surprised you didn’t force an introduction.”

 

“I don’t know that I’m in a position to do that. We haven't talked in,” Kera let out a breath. “I don't know. A long time. And I get the feeling he’d rather than I not...”

 

“Not what?”

 

“Do,” Kera waves a hand, “this.”

 

Fero nods. He gets how that is. Although-

 

“Wait, did you... is this just some way to get back at your dad?”

 

“No” says Kera, quickly, “well... maybe a little at the start. But Fero... you're really managing to  _ convince  _ people.”

 

Fero snorts. “Only like, a few.”

 

“Sometimes a few is all you need,” says Kera.

 

Fero is quiet for a moment. “Really?” 

 

His voice sounds small in the stillness of his office.

 

Kera reaches over and squeezes his hand, once, before withdrawing it. “Yeah.”

 

Fero keeps his gaze fixed on the page in front of him, biting his lip and taking a long breath in through his nose before he looks back up at Kera.

 

“So,” says Kera, back to their usual brisk tone, “Councilwoman Calsius.”

 

“Right,” says Fero, and adds her to the list of people he’ll have to be nice to tomorrow.

  
  


Fero blinks awake. Across the table from him, Kera is still slumped in their chair, the blanket half falling off their lap. Fero pushes himself up, stepping quietly over stacks of paper to tuck it more securely around them. 

 

They look, he thinks, much less serious when they’re asleep. Lem was like that too. Maybe it’s a trait of serious people. 

 

Fero leaves them to sleep, hopping up to fly out the window. It’s a quiet night, and he thinks he’d like to do a loop of the town before morning. It’s going to be a big day.

  
  


The first big thing, the thing that really feels like a tangible, actual win is the Official Rosemerrow-Gnoll Trading Hub. Fero spends a solid month running from planning meetings with Kera to every supply store in Rosemerrow, trying to get building materials. 

 

Most places still won’t serve him, but there are a few small traders who aren’t so picky about their customers now that times are tough. For the more specialised parts though, he has to call in extra help.

 

Rosanna nods when he explains it. “Who are you hiring to do the building?”

 

“Uh,” says Fero, “The gnolls, probably? I mean, it’s their store. Why?”

 

Rosanna hums. “We have a lot of skilled tradespeople that I’m sure would be happy to take on the work, if you can spare it.”

 

“That might be okay,” says Fero, “As long as they shop there when it’s done.”

 

Rosanna considers this for a moment. “Deal.”

 

They shake on it.

 

Fero ends up dragging some of the Nacre refugees into it too, painting the detail work of the sign, and he makes the same deal with them - work now, as long as they trade in the future. Rosemerrow is a city built on deals, after all.

 

The halflings of the district seem to love and hate it in equal measure. Some traders change districts, but others move in to replace them, and both sides cite the gnoll trading post as the reason. 

 

During the first week of trading Fero goes every day for as long as he can and thinks about it every moment he’s not there. The marketplace is crowded with Nacre and Velasian refugees, and more halflings than Fero was expecting. He hears later that Simmon rounded them up, helping as many halflings as he could in the lead-up and then calling in the favour. So maybe the kid is less green than he’d thought.

 

A fight  _ almost _ breaks out on the first day between a group of halfling and gnoll kids. Fero diverts his path to intervene, but the halfling kid’s mother rushes up, pulling him back.

 

“I’m so sorry,” she says, looking up at the gnoll child’s parent. “I don’t know  _ where _ he learnt such  _ language _ . Derva, apologise right now.”

 

Derva makes a face and looks like they’d rather do anything else, but they obediently grate out an “I’m sorry.”

 

The gnoll’s parent nods. “You’re forgiven, right Patina?”

 

The gnoll child, Patina, nods solemnly. When their parents are distracted, both children stick their tongues out at each other. The sight of it startles a laugh out of Fero - it’s like any other argument Fero has even seen growing up in Rosemerrow, a comforting sight.

  
  


No one smashes the windows on the gnoll shop, but whether that’s because the tide of public opinion is finally starting to turn or that people are deterred by the rotating guard Fero and Steadystep set up is hard to say. Either way, it makes Fero feel lighter every time he sees the brightly coloured sign out the front.

 

He helped do that. He helped do  _ something _ .

  
  


Emmanuel still brings groups to see him from time to time - people who need papers signed off by someone official and could he help? Fero sighs, and grumbles, and tracks down whoever it is and convinces them to sign whatever form needs signing.

 

During one of these group trips Ordenan soldiers kick in the door to Fero’s office. Fero’s seen scarier Ordenans (he travelled with Hella Varal, after all), but the Nacre refugees push themselves back, as though they’re trying to blend into the peeling paint of the wall.

 

“These people are my staff actually, so you can’t arrest them,” says Fero, standing on the table so he can be eye-level with the Ordenans. “You might have heard of me, I’m running for mayor.”

 

“These people are cursed,” says one of the Ordenans.

 

Fero sighs dramatically, nodding. “Politics does feel that way, sometimes.”

 

“No, they’re-. These people can’t be your staff.”

 

“Well, why not?” says Fero, crossing his arms.

 

“Because they’re not halflings.”

 

“First of all, that’s a rude thing to say,” says Fero. “Second of all, sure they can be. No law against having non-halfling people working for you, ask anybody.”

 

“These people work for you,” says the Ordenana.

 

Fero nods. “Yep.”

 

The Ordenan points behind him. “What about that baby?”

 

“That’s, uh, my accountant.”

 

“Your accountant.”

 

“Yep!” says Fero brightly, “Best numbers baby in the biz.”

 

In an act as miraculous as one enacted by Rosana’s god, Fero manages to hustle the Ordenan out of his office (on the promise that he would deliver proof of their employment to their squadron).

 

Fero turns, looking over the Nacre refugees with a careful eye.

 

“Well,” says Fero, “Better make this the truth then. Any of you good at speech writing?”

 

His campaign staff, such as it is, is a mismatched bunch - halflings, gnolls, refugees. Fero likes them better for it. Kera’s good at their job, but if he had to make small talk with Rosemerrow traditionalists  _ and _ have a campaign staff full of Keras he’d run away into the woods, promises be damned.

 

He says as much to Emmanuel, when he drops by to visit him.

 

Emmanuel smiles and shakes his head. “Even if that were so, I think you’d still stay.”

 

“Nah,” says Fero, keeping his tone light. “I don’t think I’m  _ that _ dedicated.”

 

Emmanuel gives him an odd look. “You stayed when you had no food or shelter.”

 

“I don’t need food,” says  Fero, “and my office is shelter.”

 

“Your office is a fire hazard,” says Emmanuel. 

 

He sets the baking tray down, batting away Fero’s hand as he tries to reach for a pastry. Fero changes tactics, grabbing for the letter he can see poking out of Emmanuel’s apron pocket. Emmanuel grabs it back, going a little pink.

 

“Oh,” says Fero. “From Lem?”

 

Emmanuel ducks his head, smiling down at the folded parchment. “Yes. Things in the Archive are proving... difficult but he’s fine, I think. You know Lem.”

 

Fero looks away. “Yeah.”

 

“Fero,” says Emmanuel, “I could ask him to write to you, if you-”

 

It’s not the first time Emmanuel has made such an offer. Fero looks down at his feet, swinging his legs back and forth from where he’s perch on a stool at Emmanuel’s counter.

 

“No,” says Fero, “I already know what he’s up to from you. I don’t need him to write to me to tell me the same information. I’m sure he’s very busy. And I’m very busy too.”

 

“Well,” says Emmanuel after a moment, “I’ll tell him you said hello. I’m sure he misses you.”

 

Fero shrugs. “Sure.”

  
  


Fero’s days blur together in tiredness - meeting people and pulling Chatterchin into meetings (halflings have gotta get used to gnolls talking on behalf of themselves  _ sometime _ ), giving speeches, skirting around making promises (he’s got enough trouble fulfilling this one, thanks). He’s more exhausted than ever, but it feels easy to pull himself out of his pile of blankets in the morning. 

 

He’s not going to win,  _ obviously _ , but he’s starting to look forward to seeing everyone every day. It’s nice to stop by the Rosemerrow-Gnoll Trading Post and see who’s there, checking in with Rosana as they cross paths in the marketplace (Simmon at her heels as always, his arms full of the Trading Post’s ledger). People nod to him on the street instead of spitting at him, which makes a nice change. (He’s even starting to get pretty good at remembering names, even without Kera there to remind him). He stops by to see Emmanuel, usually getting caught up in whatever they talk about and making himself late to wherever he was supposed to be going. It’s even good to see Kera, even when they’re dragging him to some event they  _ know  _ he’ll hate.

 

Still, Fero knows he won’t win. He tries to outwardly be hopeful, because he doesn’t want to bring everyone down when they’re trying  _ so hard _ . He knows it, absolutely and for sure, right up to the final vote counting. Fero hopes they won’t be too disappointed, that they’ll all still speak to him after he inevitably fails.

 

Arva comes to see him, as the votes are being tallied. She has to tap him on the shoulder to get his attention, it's so loud in the small room. People keep running in with updates on the tally of votes, and Kera is sending out messenger after messenger trying to get any information that will help them predict the vote count even though it is certainly out of their hands now. 

 

It's strange to see Arva. Fero wonders if the rest of the family know she's here, and asks her as much. 

 

“Yes,” says Arva, “of course, they- I'm here as the Feritas family's representative.”

 

She's turning a thick parchment envelope over and over in her hands. Fero can see the family seal in green wax on the back, and tries to ignore the heavy feeling that settles in his stomach. Formal revoking of a name doesn't happen too often, even less if it's the name you were first given, but that doesn't mean it never happens. 

 

“Here to serve me a cease and desist?” says Fero, forcing a grin. 

 

Arva frowns. “That's not… Listen, is there somewhere a little quieter where we could talk?”

 

Fero gives her an odd look. “... Okay.”

 

He leads her towards the stairway alcove. The sounds from the tallying rooms echo through the space, so it's only a  _ little  _ quieter, but it is more private - anyone who's chosen a room is likely to stay there until the counting’s done. 

 

Fero waits for Arva to speak, rocking back and forth a little on his heels. She takes a deep breath and holds the envelope out to him. Fero looks at it for a moment before he takes it. 

 

It's not a letter revoking his use of the Feritas name. Fero blinks, reading the letter through once, twice, before he looks back up at her. 

 

“You're giving me your name?”

 

Arva nods. 

 

“Okay, but you know I already  _ have  _ the name Feritas,” says Fero. 

 

“Yes but-” Arva huffs, annoyed, and Fero remembers a thousand family dinners, a hundred long summer afternoons of following Arva around, pestering her for something to do that wasn't his chores. 

 

“It's a gesture of goodwill,” says Arva.

 

“Oh, for not speaking to me for two years?” says Fero, sounding sharper than he feels. 

 

Arva presses her lips together, and looks away, like she would when they were younger and getting scolded for some mischief Fero had gotten them into. Fero reaches out and puts a hand on her arm. 

 

“Hey,” says Fero, “I know you didn't… Thanks.”

 

Arva looks back at him and smiles, and Fero smiles back. 

 

“I can't believe my little cousin's going to be the  _ mayor!” _

 

“Neither can I,” says Fero. 

 

When he gets back to the room, Kera grabs him by the shoulder. Arva slips neatly into the room behind him. 

 

“Where did you go?” says Kera frantically. 

 

“Just checking in with someone about a name,” says Fero.

 

“What? You know what, nevermind,” says Kera, dragging him forward to look at the tally updates.

 

Fero turns back, making a face at Arva, and she laughs. Fero can almost feel the old summer sun on his skin from the sight of it. 

  
  


Fero has fought pirates and ghosts (and ghost pirates), travelled to cities that aren’t supposed to exist, met queens, survived being in a burning city in one place and a burning building in another. 

 

But the moment the official comes into the room to announce that he’s won is the most unbelievable thing that has ever happened to him.

  
  


When Fero is pulled on stage, he pulls Chatterchin on with him. Fero keeps his own speech short, leaving room for them to speak. Chatterchin shakes his head, glancing nervously at the crowd of halflings before them. Fero bites his lip and steps forward again. He puts his hands behind his back so the crowd can’t see them shaking. 

 

“I’d like to take a moment, in this time of well-deserved victory, to have a moment of silence for Mother Glory. She was-” his voice cracks, and he swallows. “I didn’t know her very long, but we would have been a good friends, I think, if we’d known each other longer. She was a good leader, and Rosemerrow is poorer from not having her here to lead. So.”

 

He bows his head, looking out at the crowd through his lashes and holding his breath. There’s a quiet murmur of voices, and then people lower their heads. Fero’s chest feels tight, and he tries not to fidget as he counts to fifty.

 

He clears his throat before he speaks again. 

 

“Thank you. I will-” Fero swallows around his raw throat. “I will try to be as good of a mayor to you as she would have been.”

 

Fero has time for one deep breath in and out before he’s surrounded by people clapping him on the back, congratulating him. One of the gnolls lifts him onto their shoulders and they head out into the street. They end up in the vicinity of the Likely Striker, open for business and doing a roaring trade.

 

Emmanuel pushes a small pastry into his hands, and Fero grins up at him.

 

“I suppose that mean you’re sticking around for a while,” says Emmanuel.

 

Fero grins up at him. “Guess so.”

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on twitter/tumblr: mariusperkins


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